


but when he walks in, i am loved, i am loved

by starkhasheart



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining, First Dates, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Pining, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-06-03 12:24:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19463938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starkhasheart/pseuds/starkhasheart
Summary: Six thousand years of mutual pining comes to a head during Crowley and Aziraphale's official first date.





	but when he walks in, i am loved, i am loved

**Author's Note:**

> can we talk about the 6,000 years. can we please talk about the 6,000 years  
> this is my first gomens fic i'm sorry if it's bad i'm just gay and i'm a sucker for pining. hope you enjoy  
> title is from mitski's song "me and my husband"  
> if you want to read my hot takes follow me on twitter @crowleylesbian and if you want to follow me on tumblr @mixedpaints

Crowley does not consider himself to be a nervous person. Well, demon, to be exact.

This does not mean he doesn’t _ge_ t nervous, however. Oh, there’s been a number of times where his nerves and anxiety have gotten the better of him; when he found out that Aziraphale’s bookshop had spontaneously burst into flames with no sign of the angel inside was a time when he was nervous.

Well, no, not really. He didn’t feel nervous when he was on his knees in the middle of the inferno, per se; it was more like a feeling of dread weighing deep in his gut before it bubbled over into sheer anger. He wouldn’t consider that a case of nerves.

Then there was that fateful moment in Heaven when he donned Aziraphale’s face and stood in front of a blaze of hellfire—that probably was the last time he was jumpy. Worrying thoughts flashed through his mind as he was forced to step into the flames: will this plan actually work? Or will it fall through indefinitely? How was Aziraphale fairing in Hell? He had hoped the punishment meant for him wasn’t too harsh for the angel to endure.

…Still. He feels like none of what he felt in those instances compares to what he’s experiencing now.

It’s been almost two weeks since the Notpocalypse, two weeks since their stints in Heaven and Hell, and two weeks since Crowley and Aziraphale got piss drunk after the whole thing just to cope. It’s been two weeks since Crowley drunkenly confessed his love for Aziraphale, the words tumbling from his lips like a sloppy, embarrassing waterfall. Luckily for Crowley he had been too drunk to recall much of what happened, so he didn’t have to mull over the fact that he probably had been a bumbling idiot.

It’s also been two weeks since Aziraphale accepted his confession and let him know that the feelings were mutual.

It felt like the wind had been knocked out of him in that moment. Six thousand years. Six thousand years of Crowley yearning for Aziraphale and dealing with the fear of rejection only to learn that Aziraphale returned his feelings with fervor.

After their confessions, the two just continued coasting along, as they probably will for the rest of eternity. Their lunch dates continued just as they always did and it was like nothing even happened between them. Besides the occasional touching of fingertips when handing the other a glass of wine, or Aziraphale brushing his knee against Crowley’s under the table at the Ritz.

The feelings are there, obviously. They’re requited. The two are just a tad romantically stunted and don’t know how to properly express them.

So that’s when Crowley suggested that they actually go on a proper _date_ , unlike their usual escapades to the Ritz. Something with more romantic connotations.

So that’s why Crowley is standing in his flat in front of a full-body mirror, dressed to the nines in the finest attire he could miracle up in his closet, with a bouquet of brilliant red roses tucked under his arm while tremoring hands adjust his tie. It feels like a noose around his throat.

It’s why he carefully prepared one of Aziraphale’s favorite meals for tonight—gravlax with dill sauce—with the finest ingredients he could find in England. Crowley is actually a decent cook; he just never puts the effort into actually making anything because he’s quite lazy and would rather have someone do it for him.

“Why am I so _nervous?_ ” Crowley says aloud, his voice gruff. It’s not like he’s never had dinner with the angel before. They do it fairly often. Perhaps it’s the romantic subtext.

Crowley’s never been good with romance. Demons usually aren’t.

His yellow eyes, sheathed behind his glasses, drag over his reflection. His thin lips curl into a grimace. He never really considered his appearance until tonight. Crowley’s free hand travelled to his face, black nails grazing over the flesh there. Has his face always looked this sharp and angular? Almost gaunt in appearance? His nose is far too pointy. His nostrils flare as he inhales deeply.

His eyes trail down the rest of his body. He’s always considered himself a tad too lanky, legs a bit too long and hips a touch too thin, his trousers clinging tightly to him. Crowley was overly aware that every part of his body was boney and sharp.

His mind wanders to Aziraphale. He can picture the angel’s body perfectly in his head, having seen him many times within the span of six thousand years. Round, cherubic face with the beginnings of laugh lines and crow’s feet (Crowley wants to kiss every imperfection); a halo of white curls atop his head (that Crowley oh-so-desperately wants to run his hands through—maybe one day); his stupid prim suits that he always donned (Crowley would never openly admit he found Aziraphale to be cute in them); his dimpled, perfectly manicured hands (that Crowley wants to hold); his overall appearance, soft and pliant, everything Crowley loves about the angel wrapped up in a corporeal form.

He wonders if Aziraphale thinks this way about him.

Speaking of the angel, Crowley senses him before he can even put a knuckle against the wood of the demon’s door. Aziraphale taps out a rhythm to alert Crowley that he’s here and Crowley sucks in another deep breath.

“Don’t you dare ruin this for me,” he hisses at the bouquet of roses in his hand, and their leaves begin to shake at the implied threat. He hides them behind his back before he strides up to the door.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale’s face lights up as soon as Crowley opens the door and the demon feels the air he doesn’t need get knocked out of his lungs. He’s glad he’s wearing his sunglasses; Aziraphale doesn’t need to see the way his eyes dilate whenever Crowley lays them on him.

“Angel,” Crowley says in response, stepping aside to allow Aziraphale to enter his flat. The angel steps inside and Crowley sees he’s still dressed in his usual attire, bowtie and all. Aziraphale straightens his bowtie as Crowley shuts the door behind him.

“You’ve got quite a neat little place,” Aziraphale remarks, taking in all of Crowley’s flat.

The demon shrugs, tentatively locking the door behind him. “’S alright. Fan of minimalism myself. Er.” His teeth sink into his lower lip before he brings the bouquet out from behind his back. “I got you these for tonight.”

Aziraphale turns around and his mouth forms a little ‘o’ at Crowley’s gift. Crowley swears he can see the beginnings of the angel’s halo peaking out from behind the white shock of hair on his head. Aziraphale reaches up to gingerly take the bouquet from Crowley and gives it a sniff. With a smile that takes Crowley’s breath away, he says, “They’re absolutely beautiful, Crowley. I love them! Remind me to put them in a vase of water back at the bookshop.”

Aziraphale tucks the roses into the crook of his elbow as he moves forward into Crowley’s flat, and Crowley sends a glare to the bouquet that says _So help me Go—Sata—somebody if any of you wilt at all I will take great pleasure in plucking each of your petals off individually._ He immediately smells the fear the flowers begin to put off.

They enter the kitchen and the meal that Crowley painstakingly put together is laid out neatly on the table, still as fresh as it was when it was first prepared. Aziraphale gasps softly, and Crowley hopes it’s because he did something right. Giving the bouquet of roses a final sniff before setting them down gently on the kitchen counter, Aziraphale bounds toward the set table, eyes alight as they take in the prepared meal. The angel turns to the demon and positively beams, and Crowley feels his heart wrenching.

“It looks absolutely delightful, my dear,” Aziraphale says, rubbing his hands together. “I didn’t take you for a chef.”

“Only on occasion,” Crowley replies, and despite of himself, gives Aziraphale a wink.

Like the gentleman he isn’t, Crowley pulls out one of the two chairs at the table for Aziraphale to sit in, and the angel takes it with a smile. Crowley ambles away from the table to grab two wine glasses and a bottle of Chateaux Margeaux, and gently sets the glasses down on the table before filling them up with the wine. When Crowley finally takes his seat across from Aziraphale, he lifts the glass up for a toast.

“To the world,” he says, and watches as Aziraphale brings his glass up as well. “And to us,” he adds on, before the two glasses come together with a clink.

“To us,” Aziraphale echoes, bringing the glass up to his lips.

The two begin their meal—well, it was really only Aziraphale that starts to eat, and his face lights up at the first bite. “Oh, my, Crowley, this is marvelous,” he says after he swallows, going in for another bite. Crowley just grins at the angel in response.

As Crowley watches Aziraphale eat, the two recount the events of their day. Aziraphale tells stories of customers he shooed off from the bookshop today between mouthfuls and about new books he got in for the shop, books he wants to show Crowley one day once he’s done reading them all. Crowley listens to him intensely, watching the way Aziraphale’s mouth moves when he talks and the way his lips shape the words, the way his eyes light up and crinkle when he smiles or laughs at something Crowley says, and it’s really too much for the demon to handle. Has Aziraphale always been this beautiful or has Crowley been too daft to notice it?

“Are you all right, dear?”

Crowley blinks, his train of thought crashing and burning at Aziraphale’s concerned tone. The angel is looking at him, brow knitted in worry. Crowley wants to reach over and press his fingers between Aziraphale’s eyebrows, smoothing down the lines of concern.

“Why do you ask?” Crowley murmurs, nearly jumping when he feels Aziraphale’s knees brushing against his own under the table.

“You seem out of it,” the angel remarks, finishing off the rest of his wine and daubing his lips with a napkin. “Is something the matter?”

Oh, there are many things the matter, Crowley thinks, but does not articulate. He doesn’t even know how to put what he’s feeling into words. How does one tell their best-friend-turned-mutual-crush that they’ve known for six millennia that they want to push their relationship into a more romantic territory? Crowley isn’t sure.

“Nothing’s the matter,” Crowley says instead, swishing his wine around in the glass before finishing it off in one quick gulp. Maybe the alcohol will give him the bravery to say things his sober self wouldn’t dare to utter. “Just been thinkin’ about things.”

“What sorts of things?” Aziraphale presses, interests piqued.

Crowley might as well enter dangerous territory running. “You remember the conversation we had two weeks ago. The one where I…yeah.” The demon makes some noncommittal gesture with his hand, as if Aziraphale could deduce anything from it.

“We’ve had many conversations in the past two weeks, darling. I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific.”

Crowley suppresses the shiver that dances up his spine at the pet name. “Y’know, the one where we…uh…told each other…how we feel about one another.”

Aziraphale blinks, then he nods. “Ah, I recall now.” He purses his lips. “My feelings…are still the same, if that’s what you wanted to know.”

It wasn’t what Crowley wanted to know but he’s still relieved to hear it nonetheless. “Ah. That’s good.”

The two sit in an awkward silence and Crowley wants to rip his skin off. _Ah. That’s good?_ He was such an idiot.

“So, er,” Aziraphale starts, clearing his throat. He tries meeting Crowley’s eyes but its hard when they’re hidden behind dark shades. “What about it then?”

The demon feels like a deer in headlights. Maybe he shouldn’t have brought it up. But then, if he didn’t, he would continue to suffer in silence until the end of eternity, never being able to tell Aziraphale what he really wants from the angel, what he wants to do with the angel, what he wants the angel to do with him. Crowley clears his throat, and in an act of bravery, he removes his glasses. He might as well be completely transparent.

“We’re pretty much off the radar now,” Crowley says, folding his glasses and setting them off to the side. He stares straight at Aziraphale and notices the slight look of shock on the angel’s face. “Heaven and Hell have crossed us off the list of their priorities. We can do whatever we want.”

“Whatever do you mean, Crowley?”

“What I mean, angel, is that—is that we shouldn’t be afraid to show—to show, _affection_ , to one another,” Crowley says finally, his arms resting on the table and his hands clenching and unclenching into fists. “No one’s looking. No one’s judging. No one’s writing a strongly worded note for us for _fraternizing_ with the enemy.”

He notices that Aziraphale’s hand has ghosted closer to his own, their fingertips barely touching. Aziraphale has a thoughtful look on his face, and he grins at Crowley.

“Affection? Are you referring to…romantic affection? I didn’t take you for the type.” Aziraphale’s poking fun at the demon, like he always does.

Crowley flashes him a toothy smirk, one of his brows quirking upwards. “Only with you, angel.”

And finally, thank _somebody_ , after millennia of yearning, Aziraphale lays his perfectly manicured hand over Crowley’s, nails black as pitch, and their fingers intertwine. Crowley does not shy away from the angel’s touch; he in fact embraces it, squeezing Aziraphale’s hand with his own. Aziraphale smiles brightly up at the demon. Both men stand up at the very same time and close the distance between each other, so much that there was only a hair’s distance between them. Crowley can feel Aziraphale’s angelic grace rolling off him in waves and the demonic part of him wants to run and hide, but instead he embraces it, and embraces Aziraphale, gathering the angel into a tight hug. He can feel Aziraphale’s surprise at the gesture before he drapes his arms over Crowley’s shoulders and hugs him tightly.

“To be frank,” Aziraphale says after a beat of silence, “I’ve been thinking about doing this for quite a while.”

“What, hugging?” Crowley says, burying his face into the crook of Aziraphale’s neck. The angel lets out a small giggle.

“Well, that,” Aziraphale replies. “But just…touching, in general. Hand-holding, and the like. But I didn’t really take you for the touchy-feely romantic type, my dear.”

Crowley pulls back but still holds Aziraphale in his arms. “Like I said: only for you, Aziraphale. Ever since the Garden.”

Aziraphale gasps. “Since the Garden?”

The demon nods, smiling slightly at the memory. “I just remember you standing there fretting over your decisions. I wanted to comfort you, to hold you and reassure you, but I obviously couldn’t. So I just slithered and stood with you while we watched the two humans off and you shielded me from the rain.”

“Oh, my darling Crowley,” Aziraphale whispers, reaching a tentative hand up to cup Crowley’s cheek. Crowley leans into the touch, having craved it for thousands of years, and every nerve in his body is vibrating like a live wire. “I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting for this long.”

Crowley reaches up to frame Aziraphale’s face with his own hand. His pupils are dilated completely, black holes ringed by yellow. His heart is drumming like a horse’s hooves on a racetrack. His ears are ringing and to Crowley, it’s as if time has stopped and he and Aziraphale are the only two in the world, and Aziraphale is the only thing that matters to him.

“For you, my angel, I can wait forever,” he murmurs, before the distance between their mouths close and their lips are pressing softly against each other.

Crowley feels Aziraphale gasp against his lips before he kisses back, and Crowley can’t help the whimper that escapes the back of his throat. He’s been waiting for this moment for ages and it’s finally happening and he can’t believe it, but oh, he’s _feeling_ it, feeling Aziraphale’s lips moving against his own with fervor. He touches Aziraphale’s face with both his hands, his fingers finally sliding through the mess of white curls that he always fantasized about touching, and the angel sighs against Crowley’s lips.

Aziraphale takes Crowley’s chin between his thumbs and forefinger and deepens the kiss, letting out a soft moan as Crowley timidly swipes his tongue across the seam of the angel’s lips. Crowley goes to pull away to catch the breath he doesn’t need, and Aziraphale’s mouth chases after his, nibbling on Crowley’s bottom lip and eliciting a groan from the demon. The two finally break apart after a kiss that felt like it lasted for centuries but also no time at all, and they’re both _frazzled_.

Aziraphale’s suit is rumpled, his bowtie askew and his hair more mussed up than it usually is. His face is flushed and his lips are kiss-bruised and Crowley desperately wants to devour him whole.

Crowley’s pupils are blown wide and his voice is gruff. “You’ve no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.”

Aziraphale smiles, leaning up to press a gentle kiss to the tip of Crowley’s nose. “I have a general idea, my love.”

“Would you—care to stay for dessert?” Crowley manages to croak, voice caught in his throat.

“My dear, I will stay for as long as you’ll have me. We do have six thousand years to catch up on, after all.”


End file.
